We move by instinct, darling
|
Let our hands be hatchets, let us
|
Wander blindly, swinging madly
|
In a forest made of flesh.
|
We move by instinct, darling
|
Let our eyes like lepers drive
|
The doubters from our homes and
|
Into the bottom of the sea.
|
And we speak in signals, darling
|
Let our smoke stitch pictures, let us
|
Twist in patterns, dull the horror
|
Of a city still on fire. for
|
We are like medics handling
|
Suicide by cyanide with bleeding
|
Fingers. let us suffer
|
Completely inadequate.
|
And we move like lovers, lover
|
Let me run my fingers down your side
|
And kiss you right below the eye.
|
We sleep with shadows but
|
We never give them bread.
|
Horror, dress yourself in shame
|
Or I will tear a hole in you, you harlot.
|
Burn your eyes, (I will hold your
|
White-washed bones unto the sky and
|
Scream "oh god, if you are there,
|
I hold this body to your judgment--
|
Give it your wrath or your mercy.
|
But please pick wrath.")
|
|
-----------------
|
He Is Here, He Is Not Afraid
|
| La Dispute |
